


Not If I Protect You First

by kitsunequeen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Hunters, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunequeen/pseuds/kitsunequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunters capture Derek, Scott, and Stiles, and want to play a game. If Stiles can choose between killing his best friend and his boyfriend, he and the survivor get to walk out alive. If he can't? Everyone dies. </p><p>------</p><p>“That's insane. You have a <em>code</em>.”</p><p>“Which is why we’re letting you walk away,” David says, like that makes perfect sense.</p><p>“And if I don’t choose?”</p><p>“See those bullet wounds?” he asks, digging his thumb directly into the hole in Derek’s shoulder. Derek writhes, and Stiles wants to punch the jackass in the face. “Wolfsbane. So you choose, and we let you get the lucky winner to a doctor to dig it out before he croaks. Or you don’t choose, and we see which one kicks it first. And the other one? He'll get another bullet. In his <em>head</em>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not If I Protect You First

“Hey, kid,” the sheriff says, adjusting his badge as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “Why the long face?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Stiles sighs. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Nothing,” John repeats dubiously. “You’re snuggled up in a blanket on the couch, watching a Lifetime movie, and letting a tub of ice cream melt on my coffee table over nothing?”

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says, reaching a blanket-wrapped hand out to wipe the condensation off the table. “But really Dad, no biggie. I’m A-OK.”

 

John frowns, clearly wanting to know what’s up, but at the same time not wanting to pry.

 

"If you say so, kiddo. I’ll see you in the morning, alright?”

 

Stiles is pretty sure that’s a polite way of telling him, _you better not be wallowing in sadness and Mint Chocolate Swirl when I get home, young man_. It’s only eight now, though, and his dad’s shift doesn’t end till three, so Stiles is satisfied with the six and a half hours he has before he has to actually get up and wipe his face, and drag his sorry butt to bed.

 

“Yeah, Dad. Love ya, ‘night.”

 

“Love you,” John says, pulling on his coat and unlocking the door. “Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Stiles is, in fact, still sitting on the couch, but at least he’s shut the TV off.

 

This is all because of that stupid, stupid fight. He’s aching to call Derek, to apologize and move on and cuddle together, instead of laying alone on his stupid couch, but it’s too soon. It was only a few hours ago, and if he calls now, he’ll have to admit Derek was right. Which he’s _not_. Instead, he tries texting Scott.

 

**Stiles Stilinski [8:04 PM]**

_Hey dude_

**Stiles Stilinski [8:07 PM]**

_Yo Scotty, you there?_

**Stiles Stilinski [8:12 PM]**

_Dude_

**Stiles Stilinski [8:15 PM]**

_Bro_

**Stiles Stilinski [8:27 PM]**

_Something tells me you left your phone on vibrate again_

Since Scott does have a terrible tendency to do that, he figures he’ll try calling instead. He’s not afraid to admit when he’s desperate. At least, not to Scott.

 

It rings six times before a robotic female voice politely informs him that he has reached the voicemail of Scott McCall.

 

Stiles listens impatiently as it drones on.

 

_At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording you may hang up, or press one for more options._

 

“Hey, Scott. I uh- you’re probably busy, I guess, if you’re not answering, but I kinda need someone to talk to. Me and Derek had a big blowout earlier, and I’m pretty pissed, and I’m also kind of freaking out, because he thinks there are some rogue hunters in the area and he went to go look for them, which is totally stupid, and- well, I’ll tell you when I talk to you, it’s a long story. Yeah, but watch out for them by the way, alright? He’s not 100% positive, but he thinks so, so just- be safe and whatever, okay? And answer your phone, doofus.” He heaves a sigh, a little guilty because Chris and Allison are out of town, which means if Scott’s not picking up, he’s probably hanging out with his mom or something, and Stiles shouldn’t interrupt. But still… “Call me when you get a chance, okay? Alright. Bye.”

 

He groans, flopping back on the couch. The argument with Derek had been so _stupid_. On both of their parts, really, but Stiles isn’t quite ready to shoulder his share of the blame. Derek had gotten all worked up about the potential threat, and while Stiles appreciates protectiveness, he _doesn’t_ appreciate being babied. Derek had all but forbid him from leaving his house after ten till he figured out what was going on, which was absolutely not going to fly. Stiles knows Derek only wants what’s best for him, but he’s nineteen for crying out loud, and he’s dealt with his fair share of hunters before. Besides, it’s not like they go around pulling random humans off the street—Derek is the one who needs to be careful, if anything. Naturally, Derek wanted to go looking for them, be proactive or some shit before they had a chance to hurt anyone, but Stiles had gotten pissed and yelled that Derek didn’t need to be the martyr all the time. And then, of course, that had snowballed into what might as well have been a couple of children yelling, “I’m going to protect you!” and, “Not if I protect you first!”

 

So, yeah. It’s just been a spectacular night.

 

* * *

 

By 8:45, Stiles is bored out of his skull, and figures he might as well make his dad happy and head off to bed.

 

He pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders as he gets up, looking like the king of Arguing Couples Land. He heads to the kitchen first, grabbing the milk from the fridge and pouring himself a cup. He sticks it in the microwave and crouches down in front of one of the cabinets, rooting around for the box of cookies he’d hidden from his father. As he grabs it and goes back over to the microwave, he hears a noise from the living room. After pausing for a second, he determines that it’s the creak of a window opening, and a person gently letting themselves inside.

 

He sighs, setting down his Chips Ahoy and leaning back against the counter, waiting for Derek to come in. Footsteps echo through the silent living room, and Stiles readies a quip about teaching Derek to use the front door one of these days. The person who steps through the kitchen door, though, while dark-haired and muscular, most certainly isn’t Derek.

 

Holy. Shit.

 

Stiles stands there, just frozen in place for a moment. The stranger stares back for a second before grinning widely, and that’s enough to set Stiles off, sending him scrambling for the cutlery drawer, desperately hoping his father did dishes recently enough for there to be a knife.

 

“Ah, ah,” the man says, spanning the kitchen in three wide steps and grabbing Stiles in a choke hold. Stiles grapples uselessly at the forearm cutting off his windpipe, digging his nails in, but the man only laughs. “Sorry, kid. But tonight’s just not your night.”

 

Even if Stiles had the presence of mind to gasp out a retort, he blacks out before he ever gets the chance.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes up slowly, and it takes him a few moments to process his surroundings.

 

He’s bound to a chair in the middle of a room, arms secured behind his back with rope, calves duct-taped to the chair legs. The room has a cement floor and a staircase off to the right, and stone walls. To the left, there’s a raggedy looking sheet hanging from the ceiling, shielding one corner from his view. Stiles wonders if there’s another door behind it, or if it’s something worse. Sitting on one of the bottom steps is the man who’d grabbed him, looking positively delighted that Stiles is awake. Another man with bushy eyebrows is leaning against the wall next to the first, a shotgun hanging idly against his leg.

 

“Hello, Stiles,” the man on the stairs says, standing. He slowly descends the remaining steps and comes forward till he’s right in front of Stiles’ chair, then crouches down so he’s looking up at him.

 

“Hello, kidnapper,” Stiles says, making his voice equally amiable.

 

“Oh, he’s a funny one, David,” Eyebrows says. “We just love the funny ones.”

 

“Oh, yeah, Stiles-time is a barrel of laughs. So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Comedic relief? Because guys, I know it’s kinda dank down here, but maybe a TV would be a better problem-solver for your boredom. ”

 

“As interesting as I’m sure you are,” the first man, David, says, “we’re much more fascinated by Derek Hale and Scott McCall.”

 

Oh, great. Great, great, great. Next time Stiles sees Derek—and yes, there _will_ be a next time, because no way is Stiles being taken out by an overly-cheerful kidnapper in a dingy little basement—he’s getting a big ol’ hug and an apology, because apparently he was very, very right about hunters being in town.

 

“Really?” Stiles says, voice light, “Because personally I think I’m way cooler than them. Like, I can tell you just about anything about any of the Star Wars movies, and Scott has never even seen them. Not one! And Derek? Psh, all the guy does is work out 24/7. Not terribly interesting, if you ask me.”

 

“Oh?” David asks. “See, now Bill and I were thinking about a slightly _different_ kind of interesting. You know, something having to do with changing into monsters on the full moon, growing fangs, ripping children apart; that sort of thing. And you, kid, are going to give us information on your little pals.”

 

“Sorry dude, but _monsters_? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

David laughs mirthlessly, standing up and beginning to walk a slow circle around Stiles’ chair. Stiles determinedly doesn’t crane his neck to watch as the man passes behind him.

 

“Werewolves,” he says. “From what I’ve gathered, there’s Derek Hale, a born wolf who rose to and fell from alpha status, and Scott McCall, bitten wolf, and—now, this is impressive—a true alpha. Haven’t heard of one of those in, oh, a hundred years or so? But _you’re_ saying… you don’t know any werewolves. Is that right?”

 

When he reaches Stiles’ front, he pulls a knife from his belt and twirls it lazily between his fingers.

 

“Yessir,” Stiles agrees. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but werewolves…” he leans forward conspiratorially as much as the chair will allow, and continues in a mock whisper, “aren’t real.” 

 

“Now, Stiles,” David tuts, looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. Besides, of course, the knife he’s still casually wielding. “If there’s one thing I hate almost as much as I hate werewolves, it’s werewolf sympathizers. And _liars_.”

 

The last word is practically a hiss, any traces of his former cheery demeanor gone.

 

“Bill,” he says. “Why don’t we show our friend here just how real they are?”

 

Eyebrows—Bill, apparently—finally moves from his spot on the wall, walking over to the curtain in the left-hand corner and easily yanking it down, revealing two limp figures strung up from the ceiling.

 

It takes Stiles a moment to fully register that the bloodied forms are Scott and Derek, wrists held above their heads by chains, each hooked by wires to a machine that Stiles is sure is pumping electricity into them. Each has a gag in his mouth, and a bullet wound in his left shoulder, slowly dripping black blood.

 

They’re both totally motionless, and Stiles’ blood runs cold for a moment over whether they’re alive. Thankfully, to Derek’s right, Scott twitches and lets out a pained moan, and Derek groans in response.

 

“Well isn’t that cute?” Bill laughs. “Waking up at the same time.”

 

David circles back around so he’s standing behind Stiles again, and clamps his hands on his shoulders.

 

“Now, do you see this, Stiles?”

 

“Let them go,” Stiles grits out. “They didn’t do anything wrong. Let them the fuck out of here.”

 

Scott, eyes still closed, starts choking behind his gag, and Stiles watches in horror as a mixture of black and red spit flies from his mouth.

 

“Oh, no, that’d be no fun at all. But tell me, again, how your friends aren’t monsters? Now, if you think regular old humans could take all that, I’d be more than happy to hook you up next to them over there. But they’re not human, are they?”

 

Stiles can feel himself begin to tremble, a mixture of silent panic and fury.

 

“No,” David answers himself softly. “No, they’re not.”

 

He tosses his knife to Bill, who catches it with surprising agility, and in turn jams it into Scott’s thigh, finally making his eyes fly open with a strangled noise. He moves to Derek next and repeats the motion, then backs off to take David’s place on the stairs. 

 

Scott and Derek’s eyes flit around the room in a hazy-looking panic before they, almost in the same instant, focus on Stiles. They both choke out garbled imitations of his name, and Stiles feels ready to puke.

 

“It’s fine,” he says immediately, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m fine, it’s fine, don’t freak out. It’s okay.”

 

“He is fine,” David agrees, and Stiles is sure Scott and Derek’s eyes would be glowing furiously if the electricity weren’t controlling their shifts. “And he’ll stay fine, as long as everyone cooperates.”

 

“Great,” Stiles says. “That’s fantastic. Can you actually get around to what you want? Because I was kind of planning on going to bed sometime tonight, and I have a paper to write tomorrow, so I really don’t have time for this. It’s for creative writing class, though, so maybe this’ll help me out. I’ll call it _Hunters: Idiots, or Assholes?_ You two can be my main characters.”

 

“We were just saying what a funny one he is,” David says, locking eyes with Derek. “I can see why you like him so much.”

 

Derek growls low in his throat.

 

“That does lose a bit of its affect when you’re all dolled up like that, wolfboy,” David hums.  

 

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps, and Derek gives him a warning look. “Just tell us what you want.” 

 

“So eager,” Bill says. He slots the knife into his own sheath and pulls out a pistol, instead.

 

Scott immediately begins pulling at his restraints as hard as he can, while Derek does the same next to him, choking out what Stiles is sure would be a very impressive string of threats, were it coherent.  Stiles just tenses for a moment, but quickly gets back to trying to untie the ropes behind his back. So far, David either hasn’t noticed, or isn’t concerned.

 

“Oh, calm down,” he sighs. “It’s not for us. It’s for Stiles.”

 

“Oh, you’re going to let me shoot you?” Stiles asks lightly. “Awesome, dude. Give it here.”

 

“Oh, even better,” Bill says. “We’re going to let _you_ pick who gets shot. Your best friend? Or your boyfriend?”

 

The air in the room suddenly gets a whole lot thicker. Or maybe it’s just Stiles. Either way, he can’t breathe.

 

Derek and Scott both pause from their struggles for a moment to exchange a look, then immediately throw themselves back into it.

 

“Oh, fuck that,” Stiles bites out. “Fuck you, actually. You two are the only ones who are coming out of this dead.”

 

“See, we thought you might say that,” Bill says, getting up and walking over to Derek. He picks up his shotgun and holds it a foot or so from Derek’s head. “But here’s the situation. You’re going to pick one of your little friends to have his brains blown out, and then we let you walk away. You, and whoever’s left.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, masking the anxiety in his voice with sarcasm. “Two hunters are just gonna let a human who’s seen their faces walk away, with a werewolf. Makes total sense.”

 

“What’s wrong with that?” David asks. “Too easy? We’re not bad guys, Stiles. We’re ridding the world of a werewolf; I’d say that’s a pretty good day’s work. You give us info on true alphas for our bestiary, and that’ll make it worth our while, whether or not that one lives. And if you do decide to rat? We’ll be halfway across the country before you’re even done sobbing over the body.  So how about you take the deal before we make it harder.”

 

“That's insane. You have a _code_.”

 

“Which is why we’re letting you walk away,” David says, like that makes perfect sense.

 

“And if I don’t choose?”

 

“See those bullet wounds?” Bill asks, digging his thumb directly into the hole in Derek’s shoulder. Derek writhes, and Stiles wants to punch the jackass in the face. “Wolfsbane. So you choose, and we let you get the lucky winner to a doctor to dig it out before he croaks. Or you don’t choose, and we see which one kicks it first. And the other one? He gets another bullet. In his _head_.”

 

“And I,” David says, pulling a second knife from his boot—and what are these guys? Magicians?—and pressing it to Stiles’ neck, “will slit your throat.”

 

“Fun game,” Stiles says tightly, trying not to move his throat too much as he speaks, because David hasn’t actually removed the knife.

 

“Absolutely,” David agrees. “It has a 100% success rate.”

 

Stiles’ urge to throw up triples, knowing they’ve done this before. Knowing it works. Knowing he’s not going to get out of it. But knowing it and accepting it are two very different things.

 

He repositions his fingers as best he can on the knots around his wrists, going for a new angle.

 

“We’re gonna help you out here, though. We know it's a toughie. Let’s see who wants to live more,” Bill says, tucking his gun under his arm and walking over to Scott, pulling his gag out. “Make your case,” he says, planting a kick to his shin.

 

“Stiles!” Scott yells immediately. “Throw yourself backwards, now! Stiles!”

 

Scott must be really desperate, if he’s yelling plans to the room at large in the hopes that Stiles will be the first to react. Unfortunately, Scott’s not usually the plan-maker, and Stiles wasn’t expecting him to start barking instructions. Before he can so much as gather the momentum to launch backwards and break the chair, David slams a hand down on it Bill moves to up Scott’s voltage, effectively silencing him while he reties the gag.

 

“Well, that was cute,” David laughs. “Was there a plan after that?” Stiles thinks it was actually probably for him to kick David’s legs out and see if he would drop the knife, but the few self-defense moves his father taught him still wouldn’t be of help against Bill’s gun. Maybe Scott thinks they’d play by the code and not kill a human, but the Argents are the only hunters Stiles has any faith in whatsoever. “Or was it just to get tied up again? Either way, not a very commanding alpha, are we? Derek, try another move like that, and Stiles will be the one to regret it.”

 

Bill unties Derek’s gag instead then.

 

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he snarls. “I’m going to claw your fucking throats out and-”

 

“Oh, shut up,” David sighs, increasing the pressure on his knife just enough to draw blood. “Make your case, or get gagged.”

 

Stiles knows it barely broke skin, but Derek goes rigid at the sight of his blood.

 

It seems to be just dawning on them how very slim the chances are that all of them will make it out alive.

 

“Make it me,” Derek says after a moment, voice quiet but firm.

 

Scott makes a muffled noise of protest, and Stiles outright scoffs.

 

“Have you lost your mind?” he demands. “I’m not going to let them shoot you!”

 

“You’re going to let them shoot Scott?”

 

“I-” Stiles starts. “ _No_.”

 

His voice comes out a little wrecked, because god, no, he can’t let Scott die, but he can’t let Derek die, either. How the fuck is this their lives?

 

“Exactly,” Derek says. His voice is impossibly soft, but it’s ringing madly in Stiles’ ears. “He’s your best friend.”

 

“And you’re my boyfriend. Are we just stating facts here? I’m not letting either of you die,” Stiles says, voice rising, a stark contrast to Derek’s. “I can’t watch you die, Derek. I am fucking _not_ going to watch you die, so stop fucking saying-”

 

“Stiles,” Derek cuts him off. “Scott is younger than me. He has a pack to watch out for. It’s my uncle’s fault either of you ever got dragged into any of this shit. My whole,” he pauses for a second, takes a breath. He grits out the next part. “My whole family is dead. Scott has a mother, and father, and girlfriend, and pack, and you. One of us is going to die. All of us don’t have to die.”

 

Scott has no hope of even choking something out now, with his newly tightened gag and heightened electricity flow, but there are tears rolling freely down his cheeks and he shakes his head vigorously.

 

“Shut up, Scott,” Derek murmurs, so low  Stiles hardly catches it. “It’s okay.”

 

Stiles can’t bring himself to say anything at all; it’s all he can do not to have a panic attack right now, and to keep his eyes on Derek’s.

 

“I love you,” Derek says, and it sounds too much like ‘goodbye’. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry we fought before. I was being an idiot.” Stiles' stomach twists at the memory, at viciously telling Derek he had to get over his martyr complex. Here Derek is, ready to sacrifice himself again, maybe for the last time. And Stiles had _mocked_ it. “They already shot both of us, okay? This is not you killing me, this is you saving Scott. So don’t feel guilty. Okay? None of this is your fault.”

 

It is, though. It so fucking _is_. He should’ve let Derek find the hunters before they found him, should’ve warned Scott about Derek’s suspicions earlier, should’ve fucking not just _assumed_ the person climbing in his window in the middle of the night was Derek.

 

“Well, technically,” David says, his and Bill’s faces lit up with identical sneers, apparently both enjoying the twisted show. “He _is_ killing you. One of you, anyway.”

 

Bill tosses the little gun to him, and he holds it to Stiles’ head while slashing the ropes around his wrists. Then the knife goes in its sheath, David grabs another gun out of his jacket—yes, definitely magicians—and that one goes to the side of Stiles’ head instead. Bill moves to the opposite side of the room, behind Stiles, but it’s probably safe to assume his own gun is still trained on Scott and Derek. These guys are disgustingly efficient.

 

Then the second gun is dropped in Stiles’ lap.

 

“One wrong move, you die,” David says. “Take it. Shoot one of them. Drop it.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“You didn’t say _he_ had to do it,” Derek says, glowering at David like _who_ kills him is the problem, and not the fact that he’s very possibly going to die.

 

“Well, that’s half the fun,” he laughs. “Now, who’s it gonna be, Stiles?”

 

Scott is still shaking his head, trying to say something, and it sounds horribly like, “Me, me, me, me, me, me-”

 

“Stiles,” Derek says, looking at him gravely. It’s an order. “I love you.”

 

Stiles stares at both of them, hands trembling as he reaches for the gun in his lap.

 

Stiles looks him dead in the eye, silent tears flowing down his cheeks, and mouths three words back.

 

“Today,” David says impatiently. “Pick.”

 

“Derek.”

 

Derek’s expression is one of acceptance, and it doesn’t change when Stiles says his name.

 

Scott thrashes against his chains, but there’s clearly no chance of him escaping.

 

Stiles brings the gun level with Derek’s head. Sets a shaking finger on the trigger.

 

And throws his chair backwards.

 

David doesn’t react quickly enough to shoot him before he falls.  Stiles whips his arm to the right as he goes down, and what he was hoping would be a headshot instead goes into David’s shoulder. Still, it’s enough to send him crashing to the floor, swearing. Bill seems to not understand what happened for a second, possibly thinking David shot Stiles and _made_ him fall, and that second costs him. He’d fired a shot in his surprise, but it only hit the wall near Scott. Stiles wastes no time flipping onto his stomach and shooting again, getting Bill in the calf. Derek is shouting instructions at him, and nothing is really making it to Stiles past the blood rushing through his ears, but he finally registers something as Bill goes down, gun still in hand.

 

“The electricity, Stiles, cut it! Unplug it, shoot it, something!”

 

There’s no way he’s going to be able to cross the room to unplug it, so he sits up and fires three shots straight at the box. The first two do nothing but make noise, but the third one, his last bullet, must hit something important. The machine short circuits in an explosion of sparks.

 

Everything after that seems to happen in slow motion.

 

Derek yells, “Get down!” and Stiles easily obliges, smashing his back down to the floor. His feet are facing Bill, who seems seriously torn between grappling with his shotgun and trying to staunch the bloodflow from his leg. Stiles plants his feet on the floor with his knees in the air to protect the rest of his body. David is cursing up a storm as he slowly struggles to his feet, but he never makes it there.

 

Stiles knows the wolves don’t get their full power back as soon as the electricity stops, but they get some, and it’s apparently enough to let an adrenaline-filled, pissed off alpha and boyfriend rip their chains loose like they’re made of paper.

 

Derek is on David in a second, and makes good on his promise of slashing his throat.

 

Scott pins Bill down easily, but not before he fires off another shot, managing to graze Stiles’ left shin. That draws Derek’s attention, and he’s on Bill in a flash too, grabbing his gun and smashing the butt of it into his temple with incredible strength. The man stills immediately, and so does Derek. Stiles realizes he must be checking for a heartbeat, and evidently there is none, because by the time Stiles manages to shakily stand up, Derek is in front of him.

 

“’Trust me, Derek’,” Derek says, pulling him in for a kiss, and Stiles feels his bloody hands dragging up his sides, checking for injuries. “Fucking. Trust me. Derek,” he repeats, between kisses. “Only you would mouth for someone to trust you and then try to take two hunters out by yourself.” Another kiss. “That was so dangerous.” And another. “You’re fucking incredible.” Another. “And insane, Stiles. That was insane. You could’ve died.” Another. “I love you.”

 

Stiles has never been praised, lectured, and kissed all at once before, but he’s too wrung out to even make a joke about it.

 

“ _You_ could’ve died,” he says, running his hands through Derek’s hair, never, ever wanting to let go. “Couldn’t let that happen.”

 

Derek pulls back for a second to glance down at the wound on Stiles’ leg and growls softly, like he can scare it away. He crouches down, shredding the tape that still connects the chair legs to Stiles', and puts a gentle hand over where the bullet grazed him, siphoning the pain.

 

As soon as he’s out of the way, Scott grabs Stiles in a bear hug.

 

“I’m not gonna make out with you, but dude, that was fucking awesome,” he breathes, and Stiles laughs. Man, suddenly it feels really good to laugh. Scott still has tears actively leaking from his eyes, but he’s also sporting a signature, brighter-than-the-sun, patented, Scott McCall grin, and Stiles hugs him tighter. “Derek’s right, god, that was so brave and _crazy_. How the hell did you know that would work?”

 

“Didn’t,” Stiles admits. “My only plan before they said I would have to shoot you was picking at my ropes. But holy shit, what idiots give a captive a gun? That’s the thing, though—they were so confident. They’re used to this working. They weren’t expecting me to try something, I guess, if I thought two of us could make it out. Fucking dumbasses. And you said to do the chair thing, and I know the moment you said it was a little inopportune, but it was a good plan and I waited for another chance and… voila. And the ‘trust me’, god, well… I couldn’t let Derek think I’d actually shoot him.”

 

“Speaking of which,” he adds, disentangling himself from Scott after a final quick squeeze, who shakily walks over to David’s body, probably searching for a phone. Stiles drops down to crouch in front of Derek, pulling his hands away from his leg and intertwining their fingers. “ _Who’s_ the fucking brave one, Der? That was… ridiculous. You’re amazing. And _stupid_. Stupid, too. We must make a damn good pair, because we both have the most idiotic plans on the planet. ”

 

“Well, I’m glad your idiotic plan was the one that worked,” Derek says, standing and helping Stiles to his feet. “Now let’s get to Deaton’s before the wolfsbane ends up killing us, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

That night in bed, Stiles lays awake a long time, wrapped in Derek’s arms. Everything had gotten cleared up, for the most part. Chris Argent had come and cleaned up the scene of anything indicative of the supernatural or hunters. Stiles’ father had talked to him about handling it without involving the police force. Scott and Derek had had a conversation too low for Stiles to hear in the backseat on their way to Deaton’s, but he caught the general gist of Scott thanking Derek for risking his life for him, and Derek telling him not to worry about it. Even so, Stiles knows how much his alpha’s approval secretly means to Derek, and Scott seems to know too, based on how long their little talk went on.

 

When they dropped Scott home and went back to Stiles’ house, there were plenty of apologies and _I love you_ s, and a very long talk on how much they mean to each other, and that Derek’s life is worth just as much as anyone else’s, and that Stiles shouldn’t do incredibly brave, stupid things anymore—at least, when he can help it. There was also a thorough shower followed by a great round of I-can’t-fucking-believe-we’re-still-alive making out.

 

Right when Stiles is about to fall asleep, Derek pulls him a little further into his arms, and whispers, breath warm and pleasant against his ear, “I love you so fucking much, Stiles.”

 

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [stilesbansheequeen](http://stilesbansheequeen.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated<3


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